


Irresistible Force

by stardustmelodies



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Dialogue, During Canon, Other, Unresolved Feelings, contains spoilers (but none beyond hawke's involvement in the main game), somewhat canonical character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26955856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustmelodies/pseuds/stardustmelodies
Summary: The "Irresistible Force Paradox" refers to the classic thought puzzle, "What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?"I, like many others before me, was shocked and disappointed by the lack of direct interaction between Cassandra and Hawke in DA:I. So I wrote this.
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast & Varric Tethras, Female Hawke & Cassandra Pentaghast, Female Hawke & Varric Tethras, Female Hawke/Cassandra Pentaghast, Hawke & Varric Tethras
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	1. The Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Info dump for world state: Trevelyan Inquisitor, Amell Warden, Mage Hawke who sided with the mages, all female, default character models, blue hawke but also kinda purple? like she’s a smartass but not a complete ass. also fair warning rn this is not going to have a happy ending.

The journey to Skyhold had been perilous, arduous, and grim. With Haven left in tatters, and a harsh storm on their heels, the remainder of the Inquisition’s forces who’d survived Corypheus’s attack had enough time to establish only the barest of essentials before being forced to hunker down and wait out the worst of the weather.

The tavern was up and running by the first day’s end.

As so little else was set up at the time, Cassandra, as many, found herself taking supper most nights within the newly minted ‘Herald’s Rest,’ where she stayed long past most of the boisterous crowd, occupying her time tucked away in a far corner by a window reviewing reports and old maps of the area until the night grew dark and quiet around her and all the day’s light was bled from the skies. On this particular evening, swamped by the sheer volume of what still needed doing for the Inquisition to be back in working order, she’d relocated to a seat at the empty bar counter and conscripted several now dying candles to her cause. So engrossed was she in the work, that she scarcely noticed when another figure come in until the bartender was asking them their pleasure.

“A glass of whatever you can reach easiest,” said the stranger in a lively tone, which contrasted so sharply with the lateness of the night that it caused the Seeker to finally look up and observe the newcomer, briefly. It was a woman’s voice, spoken from beneath a thick cloak and under a heavy hood. Possibly Ferelden, by the accent. Her robes looked as though they’d seen better days, as did the tightly packed bag of her belongings that she’d set down beside her as she took to a stool two down from Cassandra’s. A traveler, then, the Seeker concluded, who perhaps wanted to volunteer to serve in the Inquisition. The war council had already welcomed several dozen such altruists in the days prior.

The pilgrim seemed in no rush to remove her vestments or even lower her cowl. The hearth was dying, and she likely still felt deep in her bones the chill from the raging storm outside.

The barkeep gave a nod, saying, “Right then,” before he turned his attention to his only other patron, “And you, Seeker?”

Cassandra hesitated. She looked to her glass, which remained nearly empty but for about a mouthful of what was no doubt now terribly lukewarm ale. She’d stopped drinking it when the temperature had become distasteful, and while she may have liked a few sips more until she’d finished up the last of her reading, she was not entirely certain she wanted to commit to another glass.

“She’ll have another,” said the strange woman, “On my tab.”

Cassandra drew up her gaze to look at the traveler more directly, taking in the sight of her — the way her cover was tattered around nearly every edge and riddled with poorly stitched patches; how her boots seemed just about falling apart; the way her rucksack seemed held together by nothing more than twine and prayer — before answering in a tone that was hopefully not too impolite, “That is unnecessary, I assure you.”

“Alright, then put _my_ drink on _her_ tab,” replied the vagabond without missing so much as a beat. The bartender laughed, surprised by the woman’s brashness, before turning towards the Seeker and supplying a look of amused but hesitant inquiry. If Cassandra’s deeds were the stuff of legend, as too was her temper. Yet, despite both herself and her chilly reputation, Cassandra found she was inexplicably curious about this charismatic character, and after only a brief pause offered a curt nod. First to the bartender, and then to the stranger.

When they’d each been served and the bartender had wandered off into the backroom, the traveler took her glass in long, thin fingers and brought it towards her. She managed to raise it to her lips in such a fashion that the heavy material of her hood still failed to fall away, revealing nothing of her face save a few wisps of some long, dark hair. Overgrown bangs, if Cassandra had to wager a guess. They obscured the woman’s eyes from view but seemed not to hamper her vision. Or, even if they did, not enough for the drifter to correct it.

“ _‘Seeker,’_ did he say?” she asked as she set the glass down.

“He did,” said Cassandra, taking a drink, herself, “What of it?”

“Not the most common bunch. I have a friend who knows one fairly well.”

“You do?” this piqued her interest. She’d heard little from her former Order since the encounter with Lord Seeker Lucius in Val Royeaux, which had been disheartening to say the least.

“Yes. Some dragon-slaying hero. Saved a Chantry mother, or something.”

Cassandra scoffed, and she could tell from the tilt of the hood that the stranger was giving her a sidelong glance. Elaborating, she said, “You’re speaking of the _‘Hero of Orlais.’_ ”

The stranger snapped her fingers. “Yes! That was it.”

“Cassandra Pentaghast.”

“That’s the one.” A pause, “You know her?”

“I am she,” Cassandra took another gulp of her ale, mentally noting how much the proper temperature influenced the ease with which the drink went down. “You are one of Leliana’s people, I take it?”

“Leliana,” the stranger contemplated the name, briefly, “Red hair, good with a pair of daggers, traveled with the Hero of Ferelden?”

“The very same.”

“We’ve met. Though I’d hardly call myself one of her _‘people.’_ ”

Cassandra looked down again. She didn’t have many friends. Fewer still in the Inquisition. Tentatively, she asked, “Then, tell me, who is this friend of yours? The one whom I should know?”

“Varric Tethras.”

The seeker snorted a laugh. “Then I’m afraid you are mistaken. The dwarf and I are not friends. You must have your stories confused.”

“Oh, I doubt that. He’s very descriptive, you know. All that practice writing serials, and such,” the strange woman waved her hand and shifted slightly, though when Cassandra cast another glance her way found her face still obscured in shadow. She waited a moment for further elaboration, but none came.

“Then you have me at a disadvantage,” Cassandra answered, growing somewhat impatient with their little tête-à-tête, “You’ve yet to introduce yourself.”

“Oh, I’m no one of importance.”

The Seeker found that hard to believe. For as much as the dwarf got on her nerves, she would have been a fool not to have recognized Varric’s uncanny ability to attract those well worthy of notice to his acquaintanceship. Pirate queens. Rebel mages. Wayward Wardens. _‘A byproduct of being a businessman,’_ he’d said to her once when speaking on the subject.

Rather, it was Cassandra’s suspicion that this traveler simply did not wish her identity to be known at this time. That in and of itself was perhaps not so unusual. The Seeker herself often loathed the way her past preceded her. While there were definitely benefits to notoriety, the relief of anonymity could be an alluring one. However, she also knew that far too often the desire to remain nameless was not so innocuous.

Equally suspect was the fact this woman seemed to know Cassandra’s story, or at least the overly-embellished version of it that was so often told, but appeared rather unimpressed. And while Cassandra was thankful for this, the irregularity of such an interaction was conspicuous. To the Seeker’s way of thinking, it could mean one of two things. Either, one, that such a tale of dragon hunters, crazed mages, and innocent lives of clergy members on the line was not so larger-than-life to the traveler, suggesting she herself had some run-ins with feats of legendary proportions, or two, that she was modeling the behavior she wished the Seeker to display towards her: that of polite disinterest. Very possibly it could be both.

Taking all this into consideration, Cassandra found herself growing increasingly suspicious. She reached again for her glass as she considered how best to respond. At that moment, a gust of gale force wind blew open the tavern door and slammed it against the far wall of the building so hard the room shook. Each Cassandra and the stranger startled, and the Seeker fumbled with her glass, which tipped over onto the bar and sent its contents spilling out over the edge.

“I am sorry,” the Seeker had already begun to apologize as she’d reached to right the glass before it either tumbled down and shattered on the floor or any more of her drink soaked the pair. On reflex, the traveler had also made a move for the beer mug, and in doing so had stretched out her arm, revealing a strange red marking just above her elbow. At first, Cassandra assumed it blood, and thought perhaps the glass had chipped and cut her somehow, but when her gaze lifted and granted her a better look at the symbol, it was instantly recognizable. She’d only ever seen that particular design once before: on an artist’s rendering of an infamous member of the Amell family. The very one whom Cassandra had spent the better part of the last two years searching for.

At the sudden realization, Cassandra pushed off from her barstool with such force that it toppled over behind her, her glass forgotten as the rest of the malt saturated into the counter and floorboards. The traveler, who took to her feet in response, shoved away from the high top and reached for the walking stick that until now Cassandra had not noticed doubled as a modest mage’s staff.

With the sharp movement came the flourish of her cloak, and the armor underneath was unmistakable: The Mantle of the Champion of Kirkwall.

Cassandra instinctively reached for her blade, only to recall she did not have it on her, instead having to shuffle for the small dagger kept holstered on her belt, which she used more often to open parcels with than to actually defend. A problem rendered moot by the fact that no sooner had she drawn the feeble weapon from its sheath did she recognized the blunt end of the glaive swing out to strike her hand, and the Seeker’s blade went sailing across the room. She moved to counter with a closed fist, but the strike was just a hair too slow, and her combatant parried.

A twirl of the staff, the sharp slam of a shoulder to her chest, and then there was a blade at her throat.

“Now, now,” said the Champion, whose hood had at last fallen to reveal icy grey-blue eyes that watched the Seeker closely, “And we were getting off to _such_ a good start. To think, I was going to put you on my Feastday card list.”

While the sharpened end of the mage staff beneath her chin was quite the preoccupation, Cassandra still could not help but note the sight before her. Varric’s descriptions in his novelization had been fairly accurate. Though it seemed in the months spent in hiding Hawke had let her hair grow out some, and the famed slash of red was missing from across her nose. The mage had sharp features, pale skin, and bright eyes that shone in the flickering candlelight. It seemed some of her characteristics had been embellished — her eyes were not quite so blue as their depictions in the book, for example — but it was still generally a good likeness. Nonetheless, were it not for the famed armor, Cassandra was unsure if she would have picked the woman out from a crowd. 

Also, she was… _shorter_ than Cassandra had pictured.

With each slow, small step backwards from the Seeker, a mirroring one forward followed from the Champion, and before long she’d managed to back Cassandra up against one of the support pillars of the still unfamiliar building. When her back met the harsh wood behind her, Cassandra felt herself swallow. _Where the hell was that damned bartender?_

She cursed under her breath, abominably angry with herself for having let her guard down while in the company of a stranger. And so soon after the attack on Haven! Had she not just learned the terrible consequences of failed vigilance? Were she better prepared, it would have perhaps been a close fight. She was a Seeker, after all. Even as one who had left the Order, she still retained many of her magic-impeding abilities.

But was this all not part of what made the Champion so dangerous? While clearly a skilled fighter in her own right — had she not just bested Cassandra without casting so much as a single spell? — it was now clear that of equal threat was the woman’s uncanny ability to make even the most reticent of individuals drop their guard while in her company. Cassandra had felt safe. Had felt interested. Invited. Enthralled, even. It was one part charisma, two parts deliberate, subtle invitation to be underestimated.

“Am I to take it that this is Varric’s idea? To have me slain by the very woman I was looking for when I questioned him?” For all the venom in her voice, there was audible strain in it, too. Cassandra was a trained warrior, true, but there was no getting used to the frightful sensation of cool, sharp metal against warm, thin flesh. “‘Poetic justice,’ he might call it.”

“I think you give our dear friend Mr. Tethras far too much credit,” Hawke answered, “Pretty sure he’d just call this _murder._ ”

It seemed the Champion’s signature snark, occasionally over the most morbid of subject matter, was not just the garnish of an easily excitable author. Cassandra took a measured breath as she considered her next best course of action. Could she summon her Seeker powers before Hawke had the chance to slice the blade across her throat?

As she began calculating the odds of successfully executing a carefully choreographed combat roll, she said, “I give him too much credit, you say? Funny. He once said something similar about you.”

“And was this before or after the kidnapping and interrogation?” 

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed slightly. “After,” she said, “But he was no longer my prisoner at the time. Nor is he now. He is free to leave the Inquisition whenever he chooses.” Upon feeling the cutlass lower ever so slightly from its resting place against the hollow of her neck, the Seeker added, “A fact I remind him of _daily._ ”

“Hmm,” Hawke hummed as she studied her, and once again Cassandra begun to consider avenues of escape.

In truth, Cassandra did not know if she actually believed in that moment that the Champion would have struck her down. There was a time when she would not have hesitated to think so, but over the months of her acquaintanceship with Varric, and what she’d learned from her time hunting for the famed woman prior to the Conclave, suspicion had grown to begrudging respect had grown to downright admiration. Hawke was not the madwoman many claimed her to be. The Seeker knew that now. However, nothing deadened the voice of logical thought quite so suffocatingly as the pulsing sound of one’s own heartbeat in their ears when adrenaline had been dumped into the bloodstream en masse.

Instead of a bloody execution, however, a switch seemed to have been thrown in her mind and the mage stepped away. With another twirl, the blade was gone from the Seeker’s throat and the staff returned to its rightful place over Hawke’s shoulder, who sat back down after pulling up a new barstool to replace the one that had tumbled over. She made quick work of the rest of her drink and then, as casually as if nothing had happened at all, she looked up from her empty glass to Cassandra, who had yet to move from the spot she’d been backed into, and asked, “Another round?”

* * *

“Varric knew where Hawke was all along?” Leliana asked before chuckling quietly, “That is the last time we send Cassandra to perform an interrogation.”

Cassandra grumbled but said little in defense of herself as the remainder of the war council smiled and engaged in some lighthearted teasing. She’d already spoken with the Herald privately — who’d stopped her from very nearly ripping Varric’s head off — and her temper over the subject had cooled significantly. And, despite popular assumptions to the contrary, Cassandra was not so unused to friendship as to not recognize that the jibbing was out of genuine fondness rather than any legitimate questioning of her capabilities.

Furthermore, the group had been working tirelessly to bring things in Skyhold to running order now that the worst of the weather had passed and Thedas was quickly making its way towards Spring. The Herald had been named Inquisitor, a Darkspawn magister was still at large, the flowers would soon be in bloom, and there was much to be done; they could all use a little bit of levity.

* * *

“So, word is Champion of Shitstown had you pinned to a post like a wanted poster on a chanter’s board, yeah?”

Cassandra groaned into her glass as Sera dragged a chair up to the small alcove on the second floor of the tavern where she had been trying, in vain, to get some work done before the day’s end. “I would not _exactly_ say she had me ‘pinned.’”

“Oh, I would,” said none other than the Champion herself, who saddled up beside her with Varric in tow. “Like a broach to the lapel of a stuffy Orlesian noble.”

In mere moments, it seemed nearly the Inquisitor’s entire inner circle had appeared from out of the woodwork, pulling up chairs or leaning on the nearby railing. The Seeker had the sudden sensation that she had been ambushed.

After shooting a brief glare about the group, Cassandra replied, “Why do you ask, Sera?”

Sera just shrugged. “Kinda’ hot.”

The flare of Cassandra’s cheeks betrayed her, and the group quickly erupted in boisterous laughter. “She took me by surprise!” she said, perhaps a bit too defensively, “It was not a fair fight.”

“They rarely are,” remarked Dorian, “Just imagine if that excuse worked with every gang of thugs or Red Templar encampment we came across. Why, the Hinterlands would never recover!”

“Surprise is a weapon just as much as any dagger or sword, Seeker,” Varric said, who had shrewdly taken up a seat out of arms reach and was considerably more emboldened amongst the company of half a dozen witnesses than he had been last they’d spoken.

“I for one would love to see the famed Hero of Orlais and Champion of Kirkwall go head to head,” said the Inquisitor, who was last to arrive at the table, though in doing so brought two large tankards of ale and began refilling glasses without prompting, “I’m sorry to have missed it.”

“You and me both,” muttered Sera, who received a kick under the table from somebody and cackled.

“I’m sure that could be arranged,” said The Iron Bull, “I wouldn’t mind a round, myself.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” said Dorian.

“Ahh, people lining up to try and kill me,” Hawke sighed, wistfully, “Just like old times.”

* * *

“You know, I think he’s actually rather fond of you, in his own way,” Hawke said later as the two of them walked through the empty courtyard. Cassandra had excused herself under the pretense of turning in early after she’d taken just about all she could of her comrades' cacophonous fraternization. It was not that she particularly disliked any of them – quite the contrary, in fact – she merely lacked the stomach for such late-night indulgences when there was work required of her the following morning. To her surprise, Hawke had also taken the opportunity to depart for the evening. Cassandra had offered to show her to some quarters she knew to be vacant, and Hawke had happily accepted.

“Who is?” Cassandra asked.

Hawke rolled her eyes, “Varric, of course.”

The Seeker scoffed as if she’d just heard a bad joke.

“Truly,” Hawke continued, “He thinks quite highly of you. He considers you a close ally and friend.” 

“He called me a friend?”

“Well, a close ally.”

Thinking back to the quarrel they’d had upon Hawke’s arrival at Skyhold, Cassandra found that hard to believe. Had he not just called her a crazed zealot and accused her of having lost her mind? Though she knew as well as anyone that the words flung in anger were often distant relatives to the subtleties of the truths from which they’d stemmed.

“That is... hard to believe.”

They walked silently for a short while, just enjoying the quiet crispness of the night.

After a time, Cassandra said, “They will not desist their prodding until we spar. You know this?”

Hawke sighed up towards the stars but the smile that settled on her lips after was good natured, and she cast the Seeker a sidelong glance. “Admit it, you just want another go at me.”

Cassandra laughed and conceded, “I am not completely opposed to the idea,”

“Alright,” said Hawke, “But I’ll warn you now: I won’t go easy on you this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should stop writing fanfiction before I finish a series. Anyway, planning to have this story come out in three (3) parts, and a possible epilogue.
> 
> Who do you think will win in the rematch? I mean, I already wrote that part but I'm just curious.


	2. The Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does a single Cassandra and Hawke fic exist where the two of them do not spar? No. Do I have any intention of filling in this gap in the fanbase? Also no.

“They seem like good people, Varric.”

“They are.”

“I’m happy for you.”

“Don’t talk like that, Waffles. I’ll be back in Kirkwall before you know it.”

Hawke looked into the fire as they sat by the entrance to the Main Hall. For a time, her expression remained unreadable. “It’ll never go back to how it was. You know that, don’t you?”

The dwarf sighed. “Yeah... I know.”

They’d been awake for a while, catching up on each other’s lives and discussing the actions of the Inquisition, intel on the Grey Wardens, and opinions over the recent Venatori encounter in the Western Approach.

“Thanks for coming,” Varric said.

“You did well, Varric. The Inquisitor is... just who we needed.”

“Ah,” he answered with notable sarcasm, “It’s been great. Murderous Wardens, archdemon attacks, plenty of blood mages and crazy Templars – just like home!”

“I know how much you hated leaving Kirkwall.”

The two had known each other too long to be sidetracked by either’s diversionary tactics. They cut each other to the quick, and it was both a relief and a shock to speak so openly and honestly with someone after so many months without.

“I... I need to see this through,” Varric said, “If it weren’t for me and Bartrand, none of this would have happened. So much for changing our lives.”

Hawke cast him a rueful look. “That’s what happens when you try to change things: things change.”

He hummed a laugh, but it lacked any real humor. “Say,” he said, changing the subject and not caring if it was obvious, “Isn’t today the day you and the Seeker agreed to finally have it out for all of Skyhold to see?”

“As if you could have forgotten.” Hawke smirked, “I’m sure you’ve got no less than a hundred sovereigns riding on the match.”

“Two hundred,” Varric corrected, “At least.”

“And how much of that is against me?”

“What? Bet against my best friend? What kind of dwarf do you take me for?”

“A clever one,” she answered, and nudged him gently with her boot from where she sat, causing him to smile, “With a shrewd business sense and a horribly good memory for how many times I had my ass handed to me back in Lowtown. Though I suppose I should thank you for never letting any of those less flattering scraps make it into your writings.”

Varric beamed, “And what? Demystify the grand name of the Champion of Kirkwall? Perish the thought!”

“Convenient, how you’re the only one who knows the truth of my chances. What are Cassandra’s quoted odds in the betting pool, anyway?”

“About three to one, I’d guess.”

Hawke whistled. “You’re going to make out like a thief. As usual.”

“You’re that sure you’re going to lose?”

She shrugged. “Her pride was wounded the last time, I think. And she’s gotten to know me these past couple of weeks. I’m not the legend anymore.”

“I think you underestimate what a strong case of hero worship the Seeker has.”

“Is _that_ what that is?” she said and considered it, “Pity.”

Varric chuckled. “Don’t get your hopes up. I hear the Inquisitor had a similar thought.”

“And?”

“And our dear Seeker turned her down,” he said, “Gently, of course.” Though when Hawke winced in sympathy, it gave Varric brief pause. “But if she _was_ to fall for a woman...” he said, rubbing his hand along his chin, “It probably would be the stunning, charismatic hero-type she’d been obsessing over for nearly two years.”

“Don’t play games with my heart.”

* * *

Hawke was a force mage, not unlike Solas or the Inquisitor. While familiarity with her likely spell arsenal was beneficial, the Seeker still had just cause for the growing tension in her gut. Solas and the Inquisitor were both damned good mages, and each a hell of an asset when accompanying her in a fight. She did not much like the prospect of having to battle either of them. Or someone with near equal ability, and, at least in Inquisitor Trevelyan’s case, nearly a decade’s more experience.

Additionally, Cassandra had dug out her old copy of _The Tale of the Champion._ Years ago, when she’d first started her hunt, she’d recorded in the margins her educated guesses on what skill set Hawke may have possessed. And, while it may not have been in the spirit of good sportsmanship, the Seeker told herself that since the book was a matter of public record it was not _really_ cheating to skim back through her old notes.

From what she’d scribbled in at the time, she was reasonably certain that Hawke possessed such talents as stone fist, telekinetic blast, fist of the maker, crushing prison, and more than likely some elemental standards such as fireball and winter’s grasp. It had been unclear to her what defensive or passive abilities Hawke may have enjoyed, as Varric had apparently decided such details were of little interest to his usual audience. This also did not cover anything the talented mage might have picked up since the book’s publication. Cassandra also took into consideration the very real possibility that Varric may have simply been lying, writing what made for exhilarating fight scenes rather than what was factually accurate. Overall, Cassandra was unsure how helpful the exercise turned out to be. She may have better spent her time practicing out in the yard.

It seemed Hawke had done her homework as well, seeing as the first words out of her mouth to Cassandra that morning were, “Right, let’s get one thing straight: none of that Seeker _light-the-lyrium-in-your-veins-on-fire_ nonsense. I’d like very much to be able to walk again when this is through.”

Giving a dry laugh, Cassandra answered, “Very well. Likewise I’ll ask you to kindly refrain from any spells causing lasting harm. I prefer _not_ to be a walking bomb or hemorrhaging internally.” The Champion seemed theatrically startled at the suggestion, holding a hand over her heart in mock horror.

A crowd began to gather around the pair as they moved more towards the center of the yard. A makeshift ring had been set up, with training dummies tied off with rope to outline the areas out of bounds.

“Alright, let’s have a fair fight,” said The Iron Bull, who’d graciously offered to referee the match after it was decided that Cullen may have been a bit biased, “No potions. No draughts. No stepping out of the ring. First fighter to yield or lose consciousness loses.”

They shook hands and retreated to opposite corners of the small arena. As soon as The Iron Bull sounded the call to begin the fight, Hawke slammed her staff against the ground and erected a thick mail of stone armor to surround her person. _Wonderful,_ thought Cassandra, who noted, too, the obvious absence of a traditional barrier’s ethereal glow. _There went the point of attempting a spell purge._

The Seeker gave a tremendous shout and watched as her enemy visibly tensed for an instant. In that moment, she ducked low and raised her shield before charging in and closing the distance between them. She did not expect such an obvious frontal assault to land, and indeed it did not, but it did eliminate Hawke’s sizable advantage should they have stayed on opposite ends of the field. Cassandra felt the bolt of some boilerplate spell crash against her shield and send her back a few paces as the mage attempted to gain back some lost ground.

Cassandra’s predictions had been right, it turned out, and the two were pretty evenly matched. All the same, it was still just about the hardest damned fight the Seeker had ever fought against a mage. Hawke seemed to have an almost unnatural ability to predict her movements, and partway through the match Cassandra began to worry if Varric had coached her on the warrior’s mannerisms and preferred fighting style. Then she realized that _of course_ Varric had done so. What else could she have expected?

As she was thrown back into one of the practice dummies for the fourth time in quick succession, she let out an enraged roar and lunged out of the way just in time to miss a fireball that nearly took off the manikin’s head. Hawke was nursing what may have been a broken arm, and her aim was getting sloppy. But Cassandra caught the tail end of a crushing prison attack, and felt her entire lower half stiffen as she went down for several seconds. To her surprise, no follow up spell arrived, nor was she met once again with the sharp end of Hawke’s lancet.

Rather, she looked up to see Hawke huffing and puffing almost as much as she, taking the moment to bolster herself and regroup. _‘I can’t keep this up,’_ Cassandra even thought she saw the Champion mouth. Indeed, it was a sentiment she shared. They were each exhausted, drenched in sweat, and even both a bit bloodied.

Once the spell wore off, Cassandra rose to her feet. They stared at each other for several beats, tension thick in the air.

“Draw?” her mouth found the word before her pride produced cause to protest.

“Draw,” Hawke agreed, and at the utterance they each collapsed in near unison. The cry of the crowd was so riotous that for an instant Cassandra thought they might mutiny, but The Iron Bull and Cullen quickly rushed in and helped pull each of the fighters to their feet. The Commander looped Cassandra’s arm around his shoulders and helped her off the field, and Hawke in turn was leaning on her staff for support as Bull helped her to a seat by the stone stairs. As they passed Varric, Cassandra watched Hawke slap her friend on the shoulder and ask, “So, no victor. How much did we just cost you?”

“On the contrary,” said Varric, “I won.”

“You... _knew_ it would be a draw?” Cassandra asked incredulously as she looked at him over her shoulder. She could feel Cullen chuckle beneath her grip.

The dwarf gave a smug and self-satisfied grin. “Never bet against the house.”

* * *

There were at least a dozen reasons Cassandra could think of to explain why she had not won their second skirmish. However, none were quite so flattering as the plain and simple truth that both she and Hawke were each heroes and fighters of equal measure. Though they had their differences, many of which were far from superficial, none of these were in regard to their level of capability. 

This was a fact not lost to either of them, nor any other member of Skyhold. And as for the Inquisitor’s pack of companions, they’d seemed satisfied enough by the duel to badger neither of the two women about another rematch. And if any still wanted their pound of flesh from Kirkwall’s Champion or Orlais’ Hero, the events of the morning appeared to have given them pause. Perhaps after watching the ferocity with which the two had fought each other, none were quite so eager to sic the same fate upon themselves.

Thedas would possibly never know who truly was the better fighter. As for Hawke and Cassandra, each just seemed happy enough to have kept up with the other. (That, and both may have harbored the secret suspicion that, were it a real brawl with no holds barred, they’d have been the victor.)

“I’ve never seen someone with such deep mana reserves,” Cassandra said, making conversation as they sat at a bench and the surgeon patched them up. “Were you anyone else, I may have suspected blood magic.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” said Varric with some vitriol in his voice, “A mage with skills that outmatch a Chantry warrior? _Must_ be blood magic!”

“You misunderstand,” Cassandra quickly course corrected, “I had only meant—”

“It was blood magic,” Hawke interrupted.

“It— _what?_ ” Cassandra turned to stare, wide eyed, at the Champion.

Even Varric looked horror stricken. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

Hawke shook her head as she elaborated, “In a way, at least. It’s not like I was consorting with demons. I ran into a cousin and we traveled together for awhile. Some Grey Warden alchemist she’d met had been experimenting with unlocking hidden powers in tainted blood. She showed me some tricks and we managed to make one of them work without the joining ritual.”

“You know where Warden-Commander Amell is?” Leliana had appeared beside them and given everyone a start.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” Hawke answered, and the hints of regret in her tone led Cassandra to believe she was telling the truth, “We parted ways not long after I’d gotten word about the Conclave. She had to keep heading West, and I needed to lay low for awhile.”

Leliana seemed quite deflated by this news. Hawke reached out and touched her arm. “She spoke of you,” she said, her voice softer than usual, lacking it’s normal showmanship, “Often.”

This worked to console their spymaster some, who after a moment returned her face to its usual, neutral expression before saying, “I believe I know [the spells](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Power_of_Blood) you speak of. They are harmless enough. Avernus was a madman, but a clever one. And the Hero of Ferelden saw to it that his work remain ethical.”

While still unnerving to know something so close to blood magic had taken place right under her nose, Cassandra was calmed by the reassurance, and not long after Leliana politely excused herself from the conversation and vanished back into the shadows from which she had come.

“Its fascinating,” said Solas, portraying the first sign of interest in the group’s activities since Hawke had arrived, “I had heard the Veil was thin at Soldier’s Peak. I would like to explore it myself, someday.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Hawke answered.

“Let’s tackle _one_ Grey Warden stronghold at a time, if you don’t mind,” said Inquisitor Trevelyan as she walked up with The Iron Bull and Stitches, the Charger’s apothecary. “Here we are, Hawke — I have it on good authority this poultice should fix up that arm of yours in no time flat.”

“You’ll be tasting it for a week, though.”

“It’s a _poultice_ , Boss.”

* * *

Once their wounds were tended to, the small group stayed for a time out in the courtyard together, chatting as they enjoyed the crisp mountain air from their spot in the shade. But one by one members excused themselves to continue with their day’s responsibilities, until it was only Cassandra and Hawke who remained. Since stepping back from her role at the war counsel, the Seeker’s days were significantly more free from official duty. She’d mostly devoted these hours to digging up information about her former order or training in a secluded corner of the yard.

But today she found her thoughts drifting from their normal unwavering focus. She was surprised that Hawke had not wandered off to find more interesting company, but so long as she remained the two spoke, and Cassandra was amazed to discover that conversation flowed in a way that felt both friendly and natural. Not at all like the baiting, prodding, and barely cordial conversations she often had with Varric. It led her to wonder if Hawke was right, that this habit of neutered bothering was simply the rogue’s own way of showing her his affections.

“That first night, in the tavern — when we met…” Cassandra said, at one point.

“Yes? What about it?”

“I am… curious. Would you have killed me?”

Hawke seemed a bit taken aback by the bluntness of the question. After taking a moment for consideration, she answered, “I don’t know, really. To be honest, I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

“Truly?” Cassandra seemed shocked.

Hawke sighed, and for a moment Cassandra thought she might try to change the subject. “When I’m faced with the decision to kill someone, it usually ends one of three ways.”

“Which are?”

“I kill them, I don’t kill them, or I say something clever and _then_ I kill them.”

“And you choose between these options by what exactly?”

With a shrug, Hawke said, “I guess you’re just lucky I couldn’t come up with any witty one-liners that night.”

Cassandra balked. “You can’t be serious. I cannot believe your decisions to be so baseless.”

“Would _you_ have killed you?” Hawke asked, “If you were in my shoes?”

“I…” Cassandra stopped to think and surprised herself with the emptiness her head provided in reply, “Ah,” she said, “I suppose I see what you mean.”

They fall silent for a time.

“And did you know who I was when you walked into the bar?”

“Yes.”

“You did?”

“Of course. I don’t think you realize quite how… _striking_ you are, Seeker.” It felt strange to hear Hawke call her that. _‘Seeker.’_ True, it was once her title, but it was also how Varric always insisted on referring to her, and from the lilt of her tone Cassandra could only believe that was where her company had picked it up, as well.

“Yet you stayed?”

“Wouldn’t it have been more suspicious had I turned tail and ran back out?” she smirked, “Plus — that hike up here was no picnic. I had _really_ needed a good drink.”

“But you drew _attention_ to yourself!” Cassandra insisted. “You spoke to me. Joked with the bartender. Asked about my Order.”

Again, the Champion only shrugged. “I like company when I drink.” And then, “It’s not like you wouldn’t have learned I was here _eventually_.”

“Then why the subterfuge at all?”

“You would have preferred if I’d come in, guns blazing? Kicked down the door, brandished my staff and shouted, ‘Hello! I’m the Champion of Kirkwall. Hand over my dwarf and no one gets hurt’?”

Cassandra scoffed before relenting. “You have a point.”

Hawke fiddled with her gauntlets, which she’d taken off while the surgeon had been examining her. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, actually, what gave me away? I thought I was doing a pretty good job with the whole _mysterious stranger_ act.”

Cassandra hummed a laugh. “Not good enough, I’m afraid,” and pointed to her arm, “It was your marking, actually.”

The Champion twisted around to have a look at the brand, “What? This? You’re joking!”

“Not at all. It is quite unique. I’ve only ever seen it in paintings of yourself and your family. Though it seems some artists get a few of the details wrong.” She hesitated, briefly, then said, “… May I?”

The way Hawke studied her just then made Cassandra want to rescind the request. But then the Champion extended her arm towards her. “Go ahead.”

While she knew there was nothing inherently personal about the act, Cassandra felt a sudden intimacy as she ran her fingers lightly over the marking. She could tell now that it was hand painted, likely by Hawke herself at the start of each day, but was applied so often and so similarly that the skin beneath it had faint tan lines. She felt Hawke shiver under her whispered touch and apologized, removing her hand. “What is it, exactly?”

“A sigil,” Hawke answered as she ran her own fingers over it in a way that seemed practiced and precise. “Or something like one, anyway. My father taught it to me and my sister when we were young. I think he came up with it, himself, actually.”

“What does it do?”

“Some sort of home brew ward of protection. Makes your magic less noticeable to those around you. Very useful for a family of apostate mages.” Hawke chuckled before adding, “Damn effective, too. I remember times in Kirkwall when passers-by would walk right between my staff and a band of thugs while I was casting, completely oblivious.”

“Why wear it now? Even when traveling?”

“Force of habit, I suppose. And I’ve learned it never hurts to be prepared. I’m surprised you even noticed it, to be honest.”

“It’s quite apparent to anyone who knows your story well.”

“Such as yourself?” There’s a wolfish grin that follows behind the question.

Cassandra again turned slightly pink as she looked away, “I had done… extensive research when the Divine tasked me with ascertaining your location.”

“Ah,” Hawke said in a teasing tone, “Varric _did_ mention something about you being my _number one fan._ ”

“I am not—!” before she can stop herself from being so easily baited, Hawke is already all but snickering into her palm at the reaction. Cassandra sneered in frustration and rolled her eyes. “ _Ugh!_ You are as bad as he is!” And when Hawke continued to grin she added, “The both of you here, in Skyhold, it is no wonder Commander Cullen has made himself scarce.”

“He did excuse himself rather quickly this morning, didn’t he?” Hawke chuckled. “Something about organizing the troops before Adamant.”

“We will march in less than a week,” Cassandra answered in defense of the man, “He is not wrong to be so—”

“Anal?”

“— _dedicated_ to ensuring our plans succeed. As you say: it never hurts to be prepared.”

Hawke concedes the point, and again there was a lull in the conversation. They each knew the upcoming battle would be a difficult one.

“This is my fault,” Hawke said, eventually, tone hushed, “Corypheus was my responsibility. I thought I’d killed him before. This time, I’ll make sure of it.” Her eyes moved off.

Cassandra turned her head to follow Hawke’s sightline, and saw Varric standing, speaking with one of the Inquisition’s scouts. She knew he’d had similar sentiments in regard to the red lyrium. “You could not have known.”

“Excuses can’t stop Corpheus anymore than they could stop up that hole in the sky,” the Champion said, for once forgoing her usual brash humor. “But we’ve got a shot here to fix this mess. I’d like to be a part of that, if I can.”

“What will you do once the battle is over?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted, “It’s not like you’re hurting for mages around here.”

“If you strike at our enemies half as hard as you did me this morning,” Cassandra said, “Then I am quite certain we could use you in our forces. And the Inquisitor would be mad to turn down your help. Which she is not.”

Smirking, Hawke replied, “Aren’t you the charmer.” and Cassandra was caught momentarily speechless. Before she could recover, the other woman rose to her feet. “I’d better go. I agreed to meet with Stroud later, go over what we know about this Lord Erimond character.”

“Leliana may be of some assistance to you, there,” said the Seeker, thankful for the quick shift in topic. She too stood, noting the way her joints ached from the punishment they had earlier endured. She offered out her hand and said, “Thank you, Champion, again. It was a good fight.”

After a brief glance down, Hawke smiled and took her hand in hers. “My pleasure, _Hero_.”


	3. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Adamant

Cassandra felt unentitled to her grief. All of Skyhold was in mourning. Their soldiers, for the woman who’d saved so many of them out on the battlements during the siege. Their mage allies, for the hero who’d championed their cause in Kirkwall and helped start their revolution. The Grey Wardens, whom Stroud had informed of her sacrifice as well as her belief that their order could be rebuilt. And then, of course, The Champion’s dearest friend, who sat at his worktable in the Main Hall, writing and rewriting letters, before balling them up each and discarding them to the fireplace behind him.

And where did she fit into any of this? Where did a slight case of hero worship and a few civil conversations rank her amongst those infinitely more deserving of their sorrow?

Cassandra stood, leaning over the railing of the loft where Madame de Fer most often spent her time, and tried not to stare. Below her, she’d already watched half a dozen dignitaries of various political rank and relevance make little attempt to hide their gawking of the famed pulp fiction author. All of Thedas would soon be aware of his heartache, and it seemed some had a voyeuristic desire to watch him suffer it firsthand. How he carried on, resigned and resilient in his agony, feigning naiveté to the whole room’s gaping, showed a strength of character Cassandra rarely gave him credit for.

“How are you, my dear?” said Vivienne, tone pleasant and poised as ever as she came up the stairs. If she was surprised to have a guest in her space, she hid it as she did all else that any might deem an exploitable weakness.

Cassandra stood for a few beats in silence, before straightening up from her position on her forearms. “I have no right to feel as I do,” she said, surprising herself that she would admit to something so raw in current company. She and the Imperial Enchantress had never been close, and while Cassandra respected her immensely, she also would have been about the last person in Skyhold whom the Seeker would have sought out for comfort. “And these… _vultures_ ,” Cassandra considered, weakly motioning to the small horde of noble gawkers who were doing a poor job of pretending not to notice either Varric or the two high members of the Inquisition who stood above, “It sickens me to see how they watch him. _Ogling_ a wounded man, as if he might _amuse_ them in his misery.”

“Vultures will _always_ leer, darling,” the enchantress replied, “It’s in their nature.”

“That does not make it right,” she gripped the handrail so tight she felt a piece of the dilapidated wood begin to break off in her fist. “And Varric! _Why_ does he make it so _easy_ for them? Sitting out in the open, when he could be conducting himself privately? I saw to his quarters myself when we arrived here. This time of day he should have plenty of light to do his work in peace and solitude.”

“I see…” said Vivienne, who had about her the look of one who’d just solved a moderately difficult puzzle, “I take it you responded rather differently when similarly eyed following you parents’ and brother’s passing?”

The shrewd deduction — a comparison that at the time Cassandra herself had yet to conclude — matched with the ease with which the Madame de Fer had arrived at it left the Seeker momentarily confounded. It was clear how the enchantress was such an accomplished player of the Game. But before Cassandra could respond in any meaningful way, Vivienne, in a rare moment of physicality, reached out and placed a hand on the Seeker’s shoulder, squeezed it gently, and said, “Mr. Tethras, as I understand it, has always been a man of the people. Perhaps he needs this just as much as they do.” She then retired from sight.

Below, Cassandra watched the Inquisitor approach and wrap Varric in her arms. She saw the way the dwarf leaned into the embrace. At the sight, a fire burned in Cassandra’s stomach the cause of which she could not quite name. She turned away, as to not intrude, and looked down at her hand to brush the bits of splintering wood from between her fingers. For a moment, she thought she felt the prolonged stare of another on her, but when she looked up, fully intending to glare down whatever low-level aristocrat had dared try to make her pain into his afternoon’s divertissement, she saw only that the Inquisitor had gone and that Varric was returning to his desk by the fire.

* * *

“A moment, my lady.”

Cassandra turned to look over her shoulder from her training in the yard at the sound of a voice she recognized. “Warden Stroud,” she answered, dropping her stance.

“I will be brief,” he said, “I know you were displeased by your Inquisitor’s decision to make the Grey Wardens your allies in your fight against Corypheus—”

“If you fear that I will go behind the Herald’s back to sabotage our alliance,” Cassandra began, feeling herself sneer as the rage within her began bubbling to a boiling point. But before she could continue, Stroud raised his hands and shook his head.

“Not at all,” he said, “I simply wished to thank you for your personal actions during the siege at Adamant Fortress, and give you my report on the affair before I leave for Weisshaupt.” In his hands were a tightly bound stack of papers.

Perhaps it was unbecoming, but in her anger, Cassandra scoffed and turned back to her practice, “I am not some filing clerk. Leave your reports with Leliana or one of her people.”

“I see,” said Stroud, “How very odd.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Sister Nightingale said you were who I should leave this with.”

This caused the Seeker to pause, and she once again lowered her sword. Slowly, she turned, planted her steel in the harsh mountain soil, and approached the Warden. His years as a Chevalier did him justice, for had anyone else seen the famed dragon slayer in such a mood stalking towards them, their first instinct may have been to turn and run the other way. He stood tall and handed her his documents. Cassandra afforded him one more, fleeting look of scrutiny before turning her attention to skim the brief. He had surprisingly good handwriting, and it was without too many of the ornamental flourishes she’d come to expect from an Orleasian hand. However, at first glance, she could not tell why Leliana would have instructed Stroud to give the report to her.

“I will see to this,” she said, finally, not wishing to have him stand there as she looked through the entire thing. “You are departing?”

“Yes, my lady, within the hour,” he said, “If there isn’t anything else?”

Cassandra paused briefly, before hearing herself say, “The Champion, she referred to you as a friend, yes?”

Something unreadable flashed across his eyes. Stroud looked off, “That is correct. We met some years ago, in the Deep Roads. Messere Hawke’s party had been attacked by Darkspawn, and her brother had been infected by their Corruption.”

“Her brother?” Cassandra knew the story as Varric had described it to her, but would have been lying if she said she was not curious to hear the events told from a differing perspective.

“Carver Hawke, a good man,” Stroud gave another nod, “He was made a Grey Warden, and I served with him for many years. When the other Wardens started acting strangely, it was I who helped the Champion and her friend take Carver far from Orlais. In exchange, she helped me to investigate the false Calling.”

“I did not realize,” Cassandra answered. There was little else she could think to say. For all of Hawke and Varric’s teasing, it seemed she knew less and less about The Champion’s life.

“Why would you?” Stroud answered, perhaps perplexed by Cassandra’s embarrassment, “But it is of little matter now. I suspect I will meet back with Carver on my journey to Weisshaupt. And Serah Tethras has entrusted me with a letter informing him what has happened.”

Cassandra was still. _Yet another who would grieve._ The burning in her stomach grew; an ache she still could not place.

“The Herald saw fit to give the Wardens a chance to redeem themselves, and The Champion sacrificed herself to see it done. I cannot say that I would have been so merciful. Perhaps they are each better women than I.” Was her own Order not without its faults? Had she not felt firsthand the sting of corruption within the ranks? “Do not waste this chance.”

There was a tiredness behind Stroud’s eyes. Likely, this had not been the first of such sentiments he had received while saying his goodbyes at Skyhold. But if her comments caused him any anger, he hid it well. He bowed his head low and then departed.

Try as she might after, Cassandra could not return her focus to her training.

* * *

From her place in the rookery, Leliana could occasionally hear the drifting fragments of conversations from those occupying themselves in the levels below. Most often these were brief, civil exchanges in the library, or occasionally the Inquisitor seeking out Solas’s counsel. Rarely did Varric’s voice drift its way up to the Nightingale’s ears.

The hour was late, and Leliana was at her desk, drafting a message to Warden-Commander Amell. At first, she could not make out what Varric had asked, only Solas’s reply: 

“I know of nothing else physical to exist in the Fade. I… do not know how a body would fare. Would it decompose? Or remain preserved? Likewise, I do not know what could sustain her if she _had_ survived her fight with The Nightmare, unlikely as that eventuality might be.” A pause. Consideration. “Even if she did live through the attack, would she be able to find food? Or water? Could she consume them, or would they be nothing more than cruel mirages, conjured up by the Fade’s nature to mimic the contents of the minds of those who wander it?”

Leliana did not need to see the exchange to know of Varric wincing at this statement. And her suspicions were confirmed by the sound Solas’s follow-up, “I am sorry. I do not mean to be so… bleak.”

“It’s part of your charm, Chuckles. Thanks, anyway. For trying.”

“Of course, Master Tethras.”

* * *

“I need your help.”

Josephine jumped in such surprise she nearly dropped her clipboard. She’d been alone in her office for hours — and, while not as opposed to his staying at Skyhold as some, was still relatively wary of the spirit’s presence and intentions — so when Cole had appeared in front of her from seemingly nowhere, it gave her a fright the likes of which might have given the House of Repose cause for jealousy.

“I-! Cole-! I…” she took a calming breath.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, Cole. What - What was it you needed help with?”

“Words,” he answered. “People are hurting. I can’t make it better or take it away. But I’ve seen it, the way other people sometimes can say things and make a person feel better. And no one says things better than you do.”

While a somewhat crudely constructed compliment, the diplomat could not help but feel flattered by the sentiment. “That’s very kind of you, Cole. Who exactly are you trying to make feel better?”

“Varric. And Cassandra.”

“Ah, I see…”

“Varric’s usually the one saying things that help people. But he can’t say them to himself. He tries, but it’s not the same. And Cassandra, everyone’s either too scared of her, or can’t see her hurt behind who they think they see she is.”

“Yes. Very… astute.”

“You aren’t going to help me, either,” he said. It wasn’t a question; he’d simply plucked the knowledge straight from her head.

While attempting to not be too disquieted by this fact, Josephine sat back in her chair and idly tinkered for a moment with the cuff of one of her ornate sleeves. She worked to construct an argument the young man, or whatever exactly he was, might understand, “There are some things, Cole — some _pains_ — that no one can help.”

“Not if no one even lets me try.”

And he was gone.

* * *

Cassandra’s bedroll lay beneath a strange painting, likely a remnant of Skyhold’s previous occupants. She rarely gave it much thought, but that evening she found herself staring up at it and the unrecognizable, Herne-like creature it depicted. Her mind kept wandering to the dizzying imagery that she’d seen in the Fade. Unable to find sleep, and long after she’d heard the blacksmiths in the forge below retire to their own bedchambers, Cassandra crawled out from beneath her sleeping bag, lit a candle, and set about once again trying to record her experiences from the ordeal. She had not kept a journal since she was very young and found it exceptionally awkward trying to depict the events that she had seen. While she considered the task important, she found herself growing exceedingly agitated by its difficulty.

She let out a vexed growl and slammed down her quill before rubbing her eyes against the palm of her hand.

“Yeah, that’s not as easy as it looks,” said a voice, causing her to startle.

“Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

With the hour so late and the forges long since put out, the Seeker could not see into the darkness, but she recognized the voice.

“Varric?” she called, and he stepped forward into the small pool of light. The candle flickered, casting a ghoulish play of light against his face. “What are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he told her, then thumbed towards her window, “Saw your light and figured you couldn’t, either.” But that didn’t really answer her question, which he seemed aware of as he pulled from behind his back first a small bottle and then two, small glasses. He set them on the table in front of her.

“Care to join me for a drink, Seeker?”

* * *

There’d been a particularly viscous despair demon up on the battlements once the Inquisition had broken through the gates of Adamant Fortress. Each time Cassandra neared it, ready to strike at it with her sword or shield, it would teleport just beyond her reach. Even when she’d tried charging the creature like a mad bull, she only succeeded in accidentally slamming into a pack of Warden warriors fighting on their side. The party’s ranged fighters, Varric and the Inquisitor, were busying themselves with a pack of shades that had converged on one of the siege points, preventing the Inquisition’s troops on ladders from breaking through the fortress’s defenses. Out of the corner of her eye, Cassandra could see a group of Warden spellcasters, bound to Corypheus’s will, bolstering the demon, and she felt herself struck from behind by a bolt of electricity and fell to her knees.

As the demon raised itself up over her, an incantation of ice building in its grasp, Cassandra raised up her shield and quickly prayed to the Maker. Suddenly, a blast of flame struck the beast and it cried out in pain before retreating. She saw the flourish of a mage staff above her, following the demon’s flight. A few moments more, and it let out an anguished roar and was no more. The next Cassandra knew, Hawke was pulling her to her feet and shouting over her shoulder, “Inquisitor! Always a pleasure!”

The young Trevelyan, out of breath but persisting, stepped up beside them as she set off a flare to alert their forces one of the siege points had been cleared. “Good work,” she told the Champion, “Stay with my forces and see that they survive this.”

Hawke gave a nod, “I’ll keep the demons off them as best I can.” As she passed, The Champion afforded Cassandra a quick wink, and the Seeker was unsure if it was Hawke or simply the thrill of battle that caused her heartbeat to quicken.

* * *

Varric moved to refill his glass and top off Cassandra’s. He’d emptied his own twice now, and each time he reached for the bottle he added some more to the Seeker’s cup as well. _Ever the gentlemen._ Whatever was in the bottle had a strong flavor, and though it went down with surprising ease, Cassandra could not identify for certain what kind of liquor it was they were sharing.

“She had a bit of a thing for you, you know?”

“A what?”

“A _thing_ , you know, a crush.”

Cassandra stared, blankly.

“You _do_ know what a ‘crush’ is, don’t you, Seeker?”

“Of _course_ I know what a ‘crush’ is, Varric! I simply do not believe that— you must have been—”

“She told me so, herself.”

“I—” she felt a rising heat creep up her neck and glanced away, “… No, I did not know.”

“You mean you didn’t notice all the flirting?”

“She flirted with _everyone_.”

Varric shrugged. “I’m just saying. You’re quite the lady killer.” Cassandra visibly recoiled at the phrase. In light of recent circumstances, the dwarf added, “Sorry. Poor choice of words.”

“I’ll be sure not to tell your publisher.”

He let out a breathy laugh and raised the glass back to his lips. “I appreciate that.”

* * *

_“Did you think you mattered, Hawke? Did you think anything you ever did mattered? You couldn’t even save your city; how could you expect to strike down a god? You’re a failure, and your family died knowing it.”_

Cassandra watched the way the Champion’s eyes narrowed and jaw tightened. “Well,” she muttered, “that’s going to grow tiresome, quickly.”

The voice was penetrating, as were its remarks. Cassandra would have been lying if she said she was not afraid. She was a Seeker. Fighting demons was exactly what she’d been trained for. Despite this, she was terrified. Almost beyond reason. And there was something deeply unsettling about know that, try as she may to hide these feelings, the demon saw right through her.

 _“And you, Cassandra,”_ spoke the beast as if on cue, _“Your Inquisitor is a fraud. Yet more evidence there is no Maker, that all your ‘faith’ has been for naught.”_

The Seeker grit her teeth, “Die in the void, Demon.”

Beside her, she felt a hand on her shoulder as the Inquisitor stepped past to guide the way. Their eyes met, briefly, and Trevelyan gave her a brief nod. Cassandra returned the gesture. A brief, silent assurance between the two that they were alright. That they would not let this creature get inside their heads.

“Of course a fear demon would know how to hurt us most. We must ignore it,” Hawke added at one point as they went about slaying some of the smaller fears that haunted the darker corners of the realm. However, that advice proved hard to follow as the group continued to press on through their swamp-like surroundings.

_“Once again, Hawke is in danger because of you, Varric. You found the red lyrium, you brought Hawke here...”_

“Keep talking, Smiley,” came the dwarf’s surly reply, and the ground shook with the Nightmare’s scornful laugh.

“In my experience,” Hawke said from behind where she was walking with Varric, the two of them watching the group’s flank, “People only _trash talk_ when they’re worried they’re going to _lose_.”

 _“Ah, perhaps I should be afraid,”_ came The Nightmare’s reply, _“facing the most powerful members of the Inquisition.”_

When it laughed again, Cassandra felt her teeth chatter. She bit her cheek and pressed on.

* * *

“You know something I don’t quite understand?”

“Tell me.”

“You always called her ‘The Champion.’ Never just ‘Hawke.’”

“It was her title. ‘The Champion of Kirkwall.’ You even used it in your book.”

“Well, sure, but I’m pretty certain you’d just about snap someone’s neck if they even tried calling you _‘The Hero of Orlais’_ in casual conversation.”

“That is different. I never liked that title.”

“She didn’t really, either. Not since… well, everything.”

“Varric, I’m—”

“Don’t, Seeker.”

“— I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“What The Nightmare said to us — in the Fade,” Cassandra pressed on, “True, it was said only to rattle us, to feed its hunger for our fears, but… the things it said… they were not lies, were they?”

“No. I don’t think they were.”

“Then what it said about you blaming yourself for putting the Champion in danger—”

“Seeker, please.”

“You must blame yourself, in part, for her entrapment in the Fade. Even if the Herald tells us she stayed behind willingly.”

The candle was nearly burnt out. She could no longer make out his face in the darkness.

“And I know a part of you must blame me, as well. And perhaps you are right to. It was my job to bring the Champion into the Inquisition. You did not make that possible initially, but…”

“Seeker, if my mother had wheels, she’d be a trolly car.”

“She… what?”

He sighed. Cassandra watched his silhouette shift in the darkness. He raised his tumbler to his lips and emptied its contents. “What I mean is, there’s no use dwelling on _‘what-ifs.’_ ”

“And yet, we each do.”

Another long pause. “… Yeah.”

There was a lull in the conversation, during which time Cassandra began to feel the lateness of the hour as a dull ache behind her eyes. All the while the simmers of a fire burned deep in her stomach, the cause of which had little to do with the alcohol in her veins. Her grief was unwarranted, it told her. Unjustified. How could she sit next to a man who’d known the Champion ten-odd years and act even one-tenth as sorry for her passing?

“You know,” said the rogue, with a sudden, certain liveliness in his voice, “If you hate telling that story of yours so much, have you ever considered having someone, oh, I don’t know, write it down? In some sort of … novelization?”

She grunted in reply. “Do not even think of it, dwarf.”

She couldn’t see it, but she knew he was smiling, “I’m just saying. Might save you some trouble. And be a chance for you to set the record straight on a couple of those details that always get blown out of proportion. If only you knew someone with a modestly good track record for that sort of thing. A writer of some kind or other…”

“And I’m sure this idea is entirely altruistic, and has nothing to do with lining that certain writer’s pockets?”

Following a chuckle, Varric answered, “No crime in making a little profit, Seeker. You could donate your part of the royalties to starving orphans or something.”

“ _Hm_.”

“Just think on it.”

“Very well.”

The night around them had softly begun to lift, thawing the thick black-purple of the sky into dull blue-greys and ashen pinks. Distantly, they heard the mountain birds — the wren, the thrush, the warbler — beginning their dawn chorus. Soon, the most devout of the Inquisition’s Andrastians would begin gathering in the Chantry, and the cooks and other staff around the fortress would rise and start their day. Beside her, the candle had burnt out, and the bottle of whatever Varric had brought them to drink seemed to be following closely behind. Her eyelids had begun to grow heavy.

“Did I ever tell you about the time Hawke was on a merchant guild hitlist?” asked the silhouette beside her. “Hawke’s uncle got into an investment scheme with a couple of merchant caste businessmen...”

He stumbled through the story. Cassandra had never seen Varric drunk to the point of unreliable narratorship, but she got the impression this was a story he may have told a few times recently, and the details of who’d heard what may have been lost to him between the lateness of the hour and the singing of the liquor in his blood. The Seeker gathered from his slurred mumblings that a few enforcers had arrived at the Hawke estate one night to collect on one of her uncle’s debts.

“Five of them! Armed to the teeth,” he went on, “They’re about to kick in the door, when Hawke just opens it and invited them all inside! Her mother made them all tea! For the next two hours, they made small talk, then wandered out of the house in a daze. No idea what’d just happened. Never came back.” He was beginning to slump in his chair. “Hawke just... had that effect...”

Cassandra waited, but Varric had fallen silent, and after a few minutes more she heard from him the steady breathing of a man lost to dreamless sleep. She considered returning to her bedroll, but ultimately decided to go instead to the chapel and start her day early. She’d worked on nights of no sleep before, and while she hardly wished to make a habit of it, she saw little harm in the idea now. Before leaving her room, she walked over to her bedroll and took from it one of the softer blankets and, carefully, so as not to disturb him, draped it over the dwarf. She took Varric’s glass from his hand, set it on the table next to her own, and corked the bottle. As she moved to exit, Varric stirred.

“Seeker—”

“Rest, dwarf.”

“I want you to promise me something.”

Taken by surprise, Cassandra looked back. The sky, though still dim, was growing lighter, and its cold blue glow gently fell through her window. The Seeker, who could only vaguely make out Varric’s face, saw his eyes remained closed. For a moment, she thought he may simply have been talking in his sleep.

“Dwarfs don’t dream,” he said, “Did you know that?”

“I did.”

“We don’t slip into the Fade.”

Of course. His experience physically in the Fade must have shaken him even more than it had Cassandra or the others. He’d lacked any frame of reference for the bizarrities of the place even on the best of days. “It’s alright. You’ll never have to go back there.”

“That’s not it,” he said. “I need you to promise me that when you dream, you’ll look for her.”

Cassandra, startled by the request, was briefly speechless. “Varric, I...”

“I asked Chuckles, but he’s...” He sighed. For once in his life, it seemed, words failed him. “I need to hear it from somebody I trust. Somebody who knows how special Hawke was. _Is._ ”

“Very well.”

“You have to promise.”

Cassandra had to bite back the scoff that was halfway up her throat. She felt as though she were speaking to a child afraid of a monster lurking under the bed. But, instead, she sighed, and said, “I promise you: when I dream, I will look for the Champ— I will look for _Hawke_.”

“Thank you.”

She waited until his breaths once again became drawn out and steady before slipping off to begin her duties for the day. In her stomach, the embers still glowed hot from that unplaceable feeling, but the whispered promise she’d made set beside it a strange sense of purpose. A candle in the window; a beacon to guide home the lost, the weak, and the weary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is how that whole questline goes down in my mind. Yes, I left Hawke in the Fade in my playthrough.
> 
> I also have an idea for a pseudo-epilogue that I'm working on. Might include it as another chapter here, or as a stand alone piece and link it as a series to this one. I'm not sure yet. 
> 
> Would deeply appreciate any feedback. Thank you for reading.


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